My shirt is soaked through, my hair dripping onto my face. Another loud crack of thunder makes me jump, my pulse kicking harder.
“Pull it the fuck together, Cull,” I growl quietly. I shake out the excess energy from my arms, then gently turn the front door knob, the wood creaking as the door swings inward. Steeling my spine, I step over the threshold, straining my ears for any sounds in the house.
The howling wind and the creaking of the foundation are the only sounds I hear. Relaxing a little, I pull my phone out and switch on the flashlight. Making sure the door is shut behind me, I creep deeper into the house, sweeping the light across every surface.
This place feels like a tomb.
Heavy drapes cover every window, letting in only thin slashes of gray light. Shadows jump across the walls whenever my flashlight moves, and dust swirls around my shoes with every step.
I make it to the living room, which seems to be the only clean space in the house. There are wrinkled sheets and pillows on the couch, and takeout containers that I don’t recall being here the last time. The same family photos line the walls, and bookshelves packed with knick-knacks and books look to be in pristine condition.
Booming thunder rattles the house, causing dust particles to float down from the ceiling. I sneeze, the sound loud inside the quiet house.
“Bless you.”
I freeze.
My heart kicks into overdrive, the organ practically punching me from the inside. I turn slowly, my hand moving towards my back waistband at the same time. I flash my phone in the direction of the voice, my other hand whipping up to aim the gun.
Standing in the shadows of the hallway is Mason.
For a second, I barely recognize him.
His clothes hang off his frame, dirty and torn. His dirty-blonde hair is tangled and greasy, hanging limp on his shoulders.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Like a stiff breeze could knock him over.
“Mason,” I grit out, the gun shaking in my grip.
He steps forward, hands up to show he isn’t a threat.
Yeah, right.
“Stop right there,” I snarl.
He stops, hands still in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice rougher than the last time I heard him speak.
I scoff. “Too late fucker. Thanks for the concussion and cracked rib.”
He cocks his head, bloodshot eyes squinted. “I don’t know what you mean.”
My hand tightens on the gun. “Spare me. Is your brain so fried from all the drugs that you can’t remember attacking me?” I growl.
“I don’t know anything about you being attacked.”
I take a step forward and he retreats one. “You’ve been terrorizing Hudson. Leaving notes and following him. You cut my brake lines. You recorded him—”
My eyes slam shut for the briefest of seconds, my finger twitching near the trigger.
“Cullen, man, I don’t know about any of that. The police questioned me a couple of days ago, and I told them I had nothing to do with it.” He sways on his feet, leaning against the archway of the hallway for balance. He starts scratching his arms absently, his hands moving to his neck to do the same.
“Fucking save it. I almost lost Hudson because of you.” My arm is beginning to shake from the fatigue of holding the gun, and partly from the adrenaline that is starting to hit.
Shoot him. Get it over with.
You’ll be setting Hudson free.
The thought settles into my head like poison.
